


A Principle of Being

by natlet



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-29
Updated: 2010-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:51:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On wings, and living with such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Principle of Being

**Author's Note:**

> AU/wing!fic.

Tim's start to come in just before his tenth birthday. At first, he thinks he's just sore, still, from when Joey Maloney wrenched his arm behind his back in the park the other day, fighting over the football. Then, he thinks he's getting sick, but he doesn't have a fever, and his mother sends him to school.

He figures it out at the end of the day, when he swings his backpack up onto his shoulder, almost goes down from the sharp, sudden pain. At home, he locks himself in the bathroom and spends half an hour with his head twisted to the side, studying his own back. He can just barely reach the two small, slightly darkened spots appearing there, one just above each shoulder blade. They're raised, just a bit, and when he brushes his fingers over them the pain rips through his body, down to his bones.

Downstairs, his mother is on the couch, watching the news. He starts to say, Mom, I think I'm getting - but then he looks, and the reporter's standing in the parking lot of his dad's diner, and there's a lot of flashing lights, and he shuts up.

It hurts, and there's blood, and he spends more than one night sitting awake in his bed, rocking, biting down hard on his pillow so he doesn't wake anyone up while they push through his skin. By the time the riot's over, they're out. They're small, still, weak and new, the feathers soft and useless, but undeniable. His father wants to know why he didn't tell them. He sounds - angry, is the closest Tim can get, but that's not it. He shakes his head. He doesn't know why.

Most kids got theirs, if they were going to, before they started school. You just took your time, sweetheart, his mother tells him gently. It's all right. She puts him in the bathtub and spends an hour wiping flecks of dried blood off his back, rinsing each feather carefully, rubbing them between her fingers to get them clean, and he cries - not because it hurts, though it does, or because he's embarrassed, though he is, but because she doesn't hate him. He'd thought maybe she would, but she never looks angry, not even while she's cutting carefully spaced holes in the backs of all his new school shirts.

By Christmas, they've filled in. Cocoa brown, with bands of black and cream and tan. He spends winter break in the house, flexing, practicing, moving one, then the other, then both together. It takes him a while to get the hang of it; he breaks three of his mom's china plates, knocks down his grandparents' wedding photo, accidentally sheds feathers into the new sauce recipe his father has simmering on the stove. He expects to get yelled at, but he doesn't, and he can't tell what it is in his father's eyes as he dumps the sauce down the sink.

Tim only hears his father mention them out loud once. He stays up late, under a tent of blankets on his bed, flashlight and a book, and when he gets up for a drink, the lights are still on in the kitchen. He creeps to the top of the steps.

"...something we did," his father says. His mother's voice is too low for him to make out her words. His father says, "But he got them so late," and "We should have waited a year to open," and "I'm not saying it's your fault, Trish, but you worked too hard when you were pregnant," and "Poor kid."

Drink forgotten, Tim goes back to bed. He doesn't feel like a poor kid. Or, at least, he hadn't.

*

In California, everyone has them, or wants to. Half the kids in his freshman English class have them, and the other half have fake ones, gaudy stupid-looking things with sequins and glitter and useless downy feathers glued randomly on bent wires, held on by elastic loops. Every professor gives lectures against a dim undertone of rustling feathers. There's a lot of showing off, unofficial competitions over whose are bigger and who has more control and who can stay up longest. He's thrilled, at first; he's never seen so many people like him in one place before. It's never seemed so normal. There were other kids who had them in Attica, sure, but he'd never really been one of them. They all knew his had been late. That though maybe he looked like them, he wasn't, not exactly.

For the first week, he loves it. He hangs out on the quad with the others, laughing when someone knocks someone else down, when someone loses control and comes tumbling out of the sky earlier than they'd wanted to. But after a couple days he notices it's usually him who's falling, and the laughter doesn't sound quite like he'd thought it did, and his don't exactly look like theirs, either - his aren't the glossy black that most kids have, or even the snowy white that's starting to show up. He'd never noticed at home, with only a couple other kids to compare himself to, but now he can't help it. His look mottled, muddy, dirty, and half the time he still doesn't know what they're doing if he isn't focusing on them.

He buys a box of Ace bandages and a book on first aid, and spends a weekend figuring out how to hold them down without making it hurt. He's lucky; they lay flush against his back, and if he puts a jacket on, even he can barely tell they're there. On Monday, he goes to the registrar's office and changes majors. Sociology is more his speed than Lit Crit, anyway.

*

The first time he goes on a date, he leaves them out, just to see. He gets to the theater early, waits on the sidewalk. He thinks he sees her car drive past, figures she missed the parking lot entrance, she'll turn around and come back.

She doesn't. Twenty minutes past curtain, he gives the tickets to a couple of ragged-looking teenagers, and walks back to campus alone.

*

In his Junior year, they put restrictions on flying on campus, after a couple guys from the Physics department get caught stealing test keys through the department head's fourth-floor window. The state builds a sort of atrium over the hockey rink; a gleaming dome, Plexiglass and steel beams, open dawn to dusk. Tim makes friends with the building manager, gets himself a key to the back door, goes in at night, when everyone else is sleeping. He's been warned against turning on the lights, but most nights the moon comes through enough for him to see, and it's not like he can go very high or very far yet anyway.

He spends weeks jumping off the first tier of seats, crashing hard into the Astroturf they'd laid out over the floor. The first time he actually gets it, goes up instead of down, he's so freaked out and excited he runs head-first into the old scoreboard and has to go home to patch up the gash above his eye. By the end of the semester, he can glide from one end of the enclosure to the other, and he can get almost all the way to the top before he gets tired.

More than anything, he wants to try it outside again; wants to feel the wind gliding over his feathers and the sun in his eyes, wants to watch the ground shrinking away beneath him. But those kids from the Physics department had been expelled, and he'd heard about a guy showing up in the emergency room with an arrow in his hip the other day, and he still falls, sometimes, more often than he'd really like, so he only flies in the atrium, at night, where nobody else can see him.

*

He loves Ellie from the minute he meets her. She's the director at the agency that offers him an internship. On his first day, she shakes his hand and smiles warmly, and he feels them flex against the bandages, under his jacket. If she notices, she doesn't mention them - not that day, not the day after, not at all until a couple months have gone by, after he's been hired on full-time. For their third date, he takes her down to the boardwalk, and they hold hands and make out on a bench as the sun sets, and when they get back to his apartment he says, "There's something I haven't told you."

She smiles, and says "I know," and "It's all right," and "They're nothing to be ashamed of, you know," and he doesn't know what to say to that, because he's not _ashamed_ of them, not exactly, so he takes her to bed instead. She arches against him and brushes her fingers over the place where they meet his body. Nobody's ever touched them before, not like that, and he comes so hard he thinks he might black out. In the morning, she follows him into the bathroom, lays a hand gently on top of his as he reaches for the bandages. "Leave them out, today," she says, and after that, he does.

They've been together almost two months when she goes to the atrium with him. The whole time, she sits frozen on the bleachers, hands pressed hard against her mouth, and when he comes down she begs him to never do it again. "It's so frightening," she says. "You go so high. What if you break your neck?"

He doesn't want to, but he slips his key under the building manager's door as they leave.

*

He marries her in June, on a cliff overlooking the ocean. He wants to wrap them, for the pictures, but Ellie won't hear of it. They take over every frame. She doesn't say anything, but she can't hide the sadness in her eyes when they get the pictures back and she sees feathers obscuring her dress, blocking out her mother, casting shadows over her face. She frames one, hangs it on the wall, but it's carefully, closely cropped.

They honeymoon in Paris, spend a week wandering the city, drinking wine and laughing, and he only has to fight the urge to take off once or twice.

*

Tim doesn't find out about the book until it's too late.

He's on his way home; walking, because Ellie took the car to a meeting up in Sacramento. On a whim, he takes a street he's never been on before. He spots the display in the front window of a bookstore he's never been to. Ellie's name takes up half the cover. It's subtitled, _A Case Study in Late-Onset Avianism._ He stands there for what feels like forever before he goes inside.

_I met Tom M. when he came to work for me,_ the introduction begins. _At twenty-one, he was uncomfortable and afraid, struggling with his..._

Tim buys a copy. Ignores the sideways looks the cashier shoots him. He barely even notices any more. He walks home in a daze, puts it on the coffee table, sits on the couch and stares at it. He doesn't read it. He doesn't need to. He can't even bring himself to touch it again.

Ellie's late. It's dark by the time he hears her footsteps on the stairs, her key in the lock. She knows, as soon as she comes through the door. "Tim," she says, carefully. "Please understand what I was trying to - "

"Oh, I think I understand what you were trying to do."

Relief flashes across her face. "You'll be such a comfort to so many children," she says. "Having someone to look up to - "

"I'll be a relief to your goddamn student loans," he snaps. "You get the first fucking check yet? You spend it? Is that where you got that necklace?"

Her hand flutters toward the little cluster of sapphires and diamonds that had appeared around her neck the week before. She'd told him it was a gift from her mother. He feels like an idiot for believing her. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't know you'd be upset."

His throat's closing up. "Upset?" he chokes out. "Jesus, Ellie, of course I'm upset, you wrote a goddamn book about me and you didn't even tell me."

"How could I tell you," she says, "When I knew you were going to react like - "

"Well, no shit I'm reacting like this," he says, fists clenching at his sides. He feels them flexing, lifting off his back, feathers rustling and spreading. Her eyes are starting to go wide, surprised, maybe a little scared. He doesn't care. "You've been _studying_ me."

"No, Tim - "

"Yes, Tim," he says. "Don't fucking bullshit me, the proof's right there." Vaguely, he's aware of his voice rising, his face going hot. There's something prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he blinks, hard. "Is that what I am to you? A client? A subject? A goddamn _case study?_"

"Of course not," she says, eyes shining, mouth tense. "I'm sorry, Tim, really, if I'd known it would upset you I never would have - "

"Jesus Christ, shut _up_," he says, "Just shut the fuck up for one fucking second so I can - "

"Tim, please, don't - "

The sound of glass shattering, and a slicing pain at the tip of the left one. He'd put it right through the window. Hadn't even realized it. He'd forgotten how big they really were. Ellie's face is pale. "Ah, fuck," he says, curling it close to his body, twisting to see the damage. A couple feathers bent, one broken off, blood leaking from the quill.

"Here," she says, starting toward him. Hands out, palms up, like he's a kid or a scared animal. Jesus, maybe he is. "Let me see, I can - "

He's only a couple steps from the window. The broken glass rattles in the frame as he wrenches it upward, crunches under his shoe as he pushes off the sill. He's out before she can get halfway across the room.

*

He just goes. Heads north, crosses the highway, skims low over the tops of the buildings. He has to focus, at first, concentrate hard on every tiny motion, but it gets easier the farther he goes, long-unused muscles coming back to life. He comes down in a clearing in the woods, somewhere; lands rough, tripping, going head over heels, coming to a stop with a skinned elbow and grass stains on his pants and a bunch more bent feathers. He drags himself upright, sits cross-legged in the darkness, listening to the wind in the treetops, chirps and calls echoing out of the forest. When the sun starts to come up, he goes home; quick as he can, skimming between buildings, trying to stay out of sight.

There's a thick, opaque piece of plastic taped over the broken window. He bangs on the landlord's door until she wakes up, lets him in. Ellie's gone, but she hasn't been for long; her side of the bed is unmade, and when he slides his hand between the sheets, he can still feel the warmth from her body.

Tim hesitates, but he walks into the living room. Ellie had cleaned up the glass, taped the plastic down neatly around the window frame. He wonders if she's already asked the landlord to replace it, decides to leave a note, just in case. The book's gone, disappeared off the coffee table, like it had never been there. He looks around, but he doesn't see it on any of the shelves. Suddenly, he's exhausted; he sways, plants a hand hard on the wall to keep himself from falling, gets himself to the couch and collapses onto it.

He sleeps for three hours, wakes up feeling stupid and slow and fuzzy, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do, so he takes a shower and goes to work.

Ellie apologizes six more times over lunch, tells him she'd take it back if she could, she hadn't realized how much it would upset him. She'd thought he'd be pleased. She'd thought he'd be glad for the opportunity to get his story out there, let other children like him know they weren't alone. He thinks maybe she should have asked him, first.

She tells him there are doctors, now, doctors who are trained specifically to work with people like him. It's amazing, she says, how quickly the field has opened to accept a new area of study. "I looked a few up last night," she says, pushing a sheet of paper across the table toward him. "I've worked personally with everyone on this list. They'll treat you well."

"I don't need a fucking shrink, Ellie."

"I don't think you do," she says. "I just thought maybe you'd like to talk to someone who knows what you're going through."

"Well, I don't."

"Tim," she says, and her eyes are tired. "Please. For me? It scared me, how upset you got, how you couldn't - "

"Everything I did, I did on purpose," he says.

She looks down. "I can't stay if you can't get them under control," she says to the table. "You could hurt me, or yourself, or someone else. I can't be a part of it. I won't."

He sighs. "Okay," he says.

"I'll be at the Holiday Inn downtown," she says, standing. "Let me know how it goes."

She leaves, and he doesn't try to stop her.

On his way home, he calls his lawyer. The papers are on his desk the next morning, a thick, discreet manila envelope; he signs them, one by one, but then he slips them back into the folder, into his drawer.

*

Tim can't stand the thought of talking to anyone on Ellie's little list. If she's worked with them, she probably meant they'd discussed her - project. They had probably talked about him. He doesn't like the idea of starting at a disadvantage, talking to someone who knows more about him than he knows about himself, all that attention directed at him. Instead, he finds a group that meets Wednesday nights at the Catholic church around the corner. He figures he can just blend in, not say anything, be able to tell Ellie he'd done as she asked afterward.

The church has a meeting room in the basement, outfitted with cushy couches and a Mr. Coffee that's seen many, many better days. It's not exactly crowded, but enough people show up that nobody tries to talk to him, nobody tries to get personal. He sits in a corner, doesn't say anything, gets up six or eight times to refill his coffee cup, get a donut, take a piss. The moderator is a guy about Tim's age, big brown eyes and a soft, steady face. Tim can feel the guy's eyes on him every time he moves, and he's halfway hoping the guy will ask him to sit back down or maybe even leave, but he doesn't. Tim's almost annoyed, and he watches the clock, but when the meeting breaks up he lingers, finishing his coffee, brushing crumbs off the sleeve of his jacket.

"You don't have to hide your wings here, you know."

He feels the muscles go tense under his jacket. He hadn't noticed the moderator heading his way. He looks up, frowning, and the guy grins. It's not the mean expression Tim had been expecting.

"I know," the guy says. "Seems sorta obvious. You'd be surprised, though." He rests one hand on the table. "Lot of people think they need to. Think they might get made fun of." Taps a knuckle against the surface, almost absently. "We don't do that here."

"I came from work," Tim says, though he hadn't.

The guy nods, his gaze steady, calm. Tim tries hard not to squirm.

"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," he says, after a minute, and he's almost surprised when he means it.

The guy nods. "The first time's always kinda awkward," he says. "Don't worry about it, everyone was new here once."

"I hope I wasn't too disruptive," Tim says. He feels like a dick, now; this guy seems perfectly nice, and there Tim had been, stomping around and sulking like a third-grader, like he was being forced.

"Nah," the guy says. "You were fine." He grins. "Next time, maybe try saying hi to a couple people. I'll introduce you, if you want." He reaches out, touches Tim's arm carefully, just a whisper of contact through the sleeve of his jacket, then away. "It gets easier," he says. "I promise."

"I believe you," Tim says, after a long second. He thought it was a lie, but as it comes out, he decides maybe it isn't.

The guy digs in his pocket, produces a business card. He scribbles a number on the bottom before he hands it to Tim. "That's my direct line," he says. "Any time, okay?"

"Okay," Tim says. He takes the card, but he doesn't look at it until he's on the street. Dr. Sean Murphy, it says. Community Outreach. There's an office number and an e-mail address printed below the name, and below that, the other number in black pen.

He doesn't call, but when Wednesday rolls around again, he heads for the church. The moderator - Sean - doesn't say anything, but he smiles when he sees Tim, like he hadn't expected him to come back. Tim smiles too, and when Sean asks if anyone would like to introduce themselves, Tim stands up.

*

"You hungry?" Sean asks, after. "Wanna grab a bite to eat? My treat."

Tim hesitates. "I'm still married," he says, finally.

Sean looks at the floor, cheeks going red. "Busted," he says, laughing. "Nah, I - I didn't mean it like that."

Tim arches an eyebrow.

"Okay, not _only_ like that," Sean says.

Tim grins. He starts to say, not tonight, some other time; but then he stops, says "Okay," instead.

Sean looks up, eyes bright. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tim said. "I'm not stupid enough to turn down free food."

There's a Japanese place around the corner, one of those Hibachi joints where the chef grins and chats and chops her way through a pile of vegetables lightning-quick, without even glancing at them. Sean's smart and funny, easy to talk to, and he doesn't look anywhere but in Tim's eyes. It's not long before Tim realizes he's enjoying himself, though he's almost trying not to. Sure, he thinks, it's going well now, but it had gone well with Ellie, too, and with Jacob before her, and Claire before him, right up until the point where everything went to shit. And he _is_ still married, even though it might not be for long. He'd never thought of himself as that kind of guy. The kind of guy who would take off his ring and start dating before the paperwork went through. Jesus, he thinks, this is a date.

Outside, the theater's letting out, and the sidewalk is crowded; they stand close under a streetlight while Sean tries to hail a cab. Tim knows he should get going, but he doesn't. He's got them wrapped down tight today, but he can feel them straining against the inside of his jacket, flexing and pushing and struggling to get free. He regrets it, suddenly, wishes he had left them out, wishes he had let the others see them. Wishes he had let Sean see them.

That one hits him harder than he's expecting, and he feels them push again at the bandages, hard enough that it hurts, and he must make a face or a noise because suddenly Sean's full attention is on him. "You okay?" he asks, reaching out, putting a hand on Tim's shoulder, and Tim shivers, because Jesus, he has to feel them now; Tim can feel the pressure of his hand through his jacket, through the bandages. He fights not to lean into it.

"Yeah," he says. "I just - I gotta get home. I gotta take them out." He ducks his head, feeling a little stupid. If there was any night he could have left them out, it's this one. He doesn't know what he'd been trying to prove.

Sean holds his gaze, but he rubs one finger deliberately over the joint. "Need a hand?"

Tim shivers again and starts to say he shouldn't, but there's a surge, a shift in the crowd behind him, and he's jostled, pushed forward until he's pressed up against Sean. Sean takes a sharp, surprised breath, and Tim can feel it as his lungs expand, as his heart starts beating harder. Tim licks his lips, and says, "Yeah, sure."

Something flashes in Sean's eyes, dark and hot. He rubs his hand over the left one again, a little harder, and this time, Tim does lean into it. "Your place, or mine?"

"Mine," Tim says. He turns and pushes through the crowd, doesn't check to see if Sean's following him, almost hopes he isn't. This is stupid, this is crazy, this is by far the worst idea he's ever had - he's known this guy for a week, spent maybe four hours with him. No reason to believe he's not thinking of Tim as a curiosity, an achievement, a fucking living, breathing degree from some School of Tolerance for Formerly Fantastical Beings. At the entrance to his neighborhood, he glances over his shoulder; Sean's still there, and he smiles when Tim looks at him, reaches out to curl his fingers around Tim's. His hand is big and warm and dry, and the neighbors are probably watching, but Tim doesn't even think about pulling away.

The apartment's dark inside, and he hesitates by the light switch. He can barely see Sean, waiting, back against the door, arms folded over his chest; can't see his face, and Tim thinks, okay, I can -

"Listen," he says, and he's a little surprised at how his voice comes out, at how he sounds so - small and afraid, like he's maybe in a million pieces and he hadn't even known it until just now - "Listen," he says, "I don't have - they're not like everyone else's. I got them late. I - I can't do what most people can, with them."

"Yeah?" Sean says. He shrugs. "So what?"

"I don't want you to be - "

"Tim." Sean steps forward, slow, deliberate, puts a hand on Tim's arm, just above his elbow. It's carefully placed; Tim's starting to wonder if everything he does is this careful, if he really thinks everything so completely through or if it's some kind of instinct, some evolutionary impulse. He doesn't know if it matters. "They're your wings," Sean says. "Why the fuck should they be like anybody else's?"

"I don't know," Tim says, and - okay, he'd never really thought of it like that before. He feels stupid, twelve, like his whole life he's been walking around without any pants on and nobody'd bothered to tell him until now. _Why should they?_ Sean's right. He feels them - he feels his _wings_ \- flex against the inside of his jacket, and Sean's hand is warm on his arm, and Sean's not fucking _moving_ so Tim moves instead; surges forward, tips his head up and kisses him, hands fisting in the front of Sean's shirt, pulling him in.

Sean makes a noise and Jesus, Tim can feel the shiver that runs through him, under his hands, against his body. His hand tightens on Tim's arm, slides up his shoulder, curves around the back of his neck, and all Tim can think about is getting closer, and _now_, so he rolls his shoulders, wiggles until Sean takes the hint, slips his hands under the lapels of Tim's jacket and pushes. He's got his hands under Sean's shirt and Sean's fingers are creeping into his collar and he can't get enough of Sean's mouth, the way he tastes, the way he's standing there and letting Tim explore him - it's almost starting to freak Tim out a little, how still Sean is, and he starts to think maybe he's made a huge mistake, maybe this isn't where Sean had been going with this at all, and pulls back enough to look Sean in the eye.

"Ah, fuck," Sean says, breathlessly, "Fuck, get _back_ here," and Tim laughs, and he's still laughing as he slings an arm around Sean's neck, kisses him again even as he's pulling him forward, down the hall, toward the bed, working the buttons on Sean's shirt as he goes.

It's quiet, sounds of their breathing rough and loud even against the noise from the street, through the plastic over the window. Tim skims his t-shirt off and pushes Sean back, crawls up over him, knees digging into the bed on either side of Sean's hips. When Sean reaches for him, he stops him, putting his hands over Sean's, pushing them down, gently. "Let me do it," he says, and when Sean nods he reaches behind himself, unhooks the clasp, lets them - lets his wings - out.

Sean's chest is heaving, his eyes flicking over Tim's shoulders, back to his face, hands resting light on Tim's thighs, thumbs making little circles on top of his pants. He's hard against Tim and Tim can't help grinding down against him, thrilling a little when Sean bites his lip, draws in a fast, hissing breath. Tim takes his time unwrapping the bandages, moving slow, lets himself feel it as his wings stretch, rise off his back, feathers ruffling and shifting and settling back together right, keeps his eyes on Sean's face the whole time, looking for - some kind of hint, a clue to what he's thinking, something, anything - waiting for the change he knows is going to come, as soon as he gets them all the way out, because it always comes, with everyone, it's always different once they see them, every time.

But he drops the bandages off the edge of the bed and stretches, just a little bit, flexes his wings until he knows Sean can see them, has to see them; Sean swallows, hard, but he's not looking at the wings, Tim realizes, he's looking at _Tim_, like he almost doesn't notice them, like they don't make a difference, like they're not the focus - and oh, Tim thinks, oh, _fuck_, and he makes a little desperate noise and almost falls forward, rushing to get up against his skin. Sean's hands slide up his arms, slow, fingertips leaving hot trails on his skin as he mouths at Sean's throat, tongue darting out, tasting salt and sweat, feeling the blood running through his veins. He moans, low and frustrated and deep in his chest as Sean stops, fingers resting inches from the place where the wings join his body. "Sean," he says, against the stubble on Sean's jaw, "Jesus, _please,_ touch them."

Sean doesn't move, doesn't say anything, like Tim hadn't said anything, like he was waiting for something, hands resting light on Tim's shoulders, and Tim can feel his heart beating hard, tremors going through his body, and he's almost getting pissed because fuck, why the fuck is he holding _back_ -

"Touch me," he tries, instead.

Sean moans and says "Ah, fuck, yeah," and his voice cracks and his hips jerk up against Tim's as he brushes his fingers over Tim's wings, so gentle. He doesn't linger there, brings one hand up to stroke the back of Tim's neck, slides the other down to rest in the small of his back, pulling him closer, and some little detached part of Tim's mind is saying wake up, pay attention, this is important, but he doesn't have time to listen and Sean strokes through his feathers and digs his fingers hard into Tim's hip and pushes up into him and Tim shudders, gasping into Sean's throat as he comes.

*

Tim goes in to work at night, cleans out his desk. He takes a minute and adds the date to the papers he'd signed, scribbling it quickly, offhand, across each form. He doesn't think Ellie will be surprised - or, if she is, she'll be more surprised about his resignation than the divorce. He figures she probably should have seen it coming.

He leaves the two envelopes in her mailbox, and he turns to go, but he pauses; curls one wing around, plucks a feather, and leaves that in her mailbox, too.

*

They drive up the coast, just for the hell of it, windows open in Sean's truck, wind ruffling through Tim's feathers and blowing Sean's hair across his face. Tim reaches over to brush it out of his eyes, and Sean grins, catches Tim's wrist, presses Tim's fingers against his lips.

The beach they stop at is deserted, and they walk close together, leaning into the breeze coming off the water, sand shifting under their feet. Sean squints against the sun and at the edge of the water Tim steps in front of him, spreads his wings to block the light, leans in and kisses Sean, hard and wet and quick. "You wanna see something?" he says.

Sean looks at him, half a grin, eyes warm. "Yeah, sure."

Tim steps back, lets go, pushes off; lets the wind fill his wings and take him up, glides on a current, looping long ovals along the shoreline, and when he looks down, Sean's laughing up at him, waving him higher.

\--

_Though I lack the art  
to decipher it,  
no doubt the next chapter  
in my book of transformations  
is already written.  
I am not done with my changes._  
\- [The Layers by Stanley Kunitz](http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19250)

**Author's Note:**

> This is 110% trillingstar's fault.
> 
> Title and tiny text appropriated from [The Layers by Stanley Kunitz](http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19250)


End file.
